Clare recoiled, slicing a look to the main floor.
Entertainers were hurling their daggers into the crowd. A woman shrieked, the sound ringing sharply against the stone walls.
Clare shoved from her chair, lungs burning as she watched Amil grasp his father’s shoulder, screaming for aid.
A hand slammed down on Clare’s shoulder and she spun to see Venn towering over her, his expression locked. “Stay low.” He didn’t give her another choice as he hauled her toward the servants’ passage behind the head table, one hand pressing between her shoulder blades. The king was also being herded to the narrow passage and so was Grandeur. Chaos had overthrown the room. Everyone was running, and—
Bennick.
Clare nearly stumbled. She threw a look toward the main doors, which had been shut, and her blood ran cold. Guards wearing blue uniforms were piled on the floor, their bodies unmoving. They’d probably been among the first killed.
Her heart wrenched. Was Bennick one of them? Dirk? Gavril? She tripped on her own feet but Venn held her up and propelled her forward.
The nobles screamed as they darted for safety. Some cowered under tables while others dashed toward the shadowed corners, and others still pushed to follow the king’s retreat. Beside Clare, a middle-aged woman wearing a beautiful violet dress suddenly fell, a crossbow bolt buried in her back. The snap and twang offiring bolts seemed louder than the screams. A flash of heat scorched inside Clare, a mix of fear and panic. Sweat coated her body, sticking her dress to her back.
Venn cursed and dragged Clare to a stop. His grip bruised her arm, but that throbbing pain was nothing when she saw what he’d seen.
The king’s guard was being cut down by men with swords who poured from the servants’ passage. Three, five, ten—too many attackers to count. Screams of alarm, pain, and death lit the writhing room.
Venn shoved Clare against the stone wall, his arms landing on either side of her head as he caged her in, shielding her with his own body. His throat jumped as he swallowed. “There’s another passage across the room,” he gritted out. “We’ll—”
He slammed against her and Clare choked on a scream. Herarms came around his waist on instinct, though he was far too heavy for her to hold.
Clare crashed to her knees with him and when heslumped against her, she saw the bolt buried in his back. Blood bloomed, spreading between his shoulder blades. It only took seconds for the blood to reach her gloved hands, soaking into the white material. Panic exploded in her gut. “Venn!”
He didn’t move.
A sob caught in her throat. Her arms trembled as she tried to lift him. From the corner of her eye she saw Wilf charge toward them, shoving people aside. She opened her mouth to scream for his help, but her muscles locked at the snarl on his face.
The darkness in his eyes was a physical attack and Clare’sbreath caught when he drew a knife from his belt and threw it, spinning it through the air—right at her.
Clare couldn’t move, pinned beneath Venn’s weight. Her arms tightened around Venn, as if that would somehow protect them.
The dagger thudded into flesh and she flinched. A gurgledcough sounded beyond her and Clare whipped around. Anattacker crumpled, Wilf’s dagger lodged in his chest. His outstretched hand fell so close to her, his curling fingers brushed her skirt.
Wilf dropped into a crouch before Clare, his large hand braced against the nearby wall. “Are you hurt?” he demanded.
She stared at him, heart thudding. Wilf had saved her life.
He vented an irritated breath. “Are you hurt?”
“No.” She tightened her hold on Venn. “But—”
Wilf dragged Venn off her and made a quick study; the bolt was angled and had impaled closer to his shoulder than his heart.
Clare’s eyes darted to movement over Wilf’s shoulder. Another attacker was coming up behind him. Clare stiffened. “Look out!”
Wilf spun. His massive body slammed into the attacker, sending them both crashing to the floor.
Clare’s heart thundered in her chest, deep and aching. Forcing herself to think past her fear, she dragged up her skirt and drew out Eliot’s dagger. Clutching it in her bloodstained hand, she darted a look over the room. It was pandemonium. The attackers weren’t obvious at first glance, though most seemed to wear the bright costumes of the entertainers. Not all the entertainers were attacking, though—Clare could see their bodies on the ground, too, some of them so small . . . the children who had handed out gifts and flowers.
It was too much. The death. The screams. The terror. Clare couldn’t drag in enough air. She couldn’t think. She couldn’t leave Venn, even though instinct cried for her to seek shelter. Feet pounded the stone floor and screams stabbed the air.
Beside her, Venn groaned.
“Venn?” She bent over him, her free hand touching his right shoulder—the furthest from the bolt. “Don’t move. You’ve been hit.”
“You don’t say,” he gasped, hissing out a sharp breath.
Tears burned her eyes. “You’ll be fine.”
He shifted a little and his entire body shuddered. He sworehoarsely, hands curling against the stone floor. Swallowing past the pain, he ground out, “You have to get out.”
“But the passage—”
“Then hide,” he cut in. “Get under the table. The palace guard will come, but you need to hide until then.”
“I’m not leaving you.” A glance revealed Wilf was fighting yet another attacker. Her skin crawled and the dinner she’d just eaten swam uneasily in her belly.
Venn tried to push himself up, but his shaking arms couldn’t manage it and he cringed.
“You need to stay down,” she told him. “It’s a fates-blasted miracle that bolt didn’t pierce a lung. You need to—” She cut herself off the moment she locked
